


hounds of love

by ranchboiii



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dads of Marmora (Voltron), M/M, Now This Is Podracing, extremely sappy and corny because i just don't know how to do it any other way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:14:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranchboiii/pseuds/ranchboiii
Summary: Feeling lonely and aching for more than what the Marmora Outpost has to offer him, Keith decides to run away and try his hand at racing. But the races are full of unfamiliar history that threatens to put Keith in a compromising position.





	1. The Outpost

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during the summer after season six as a way to chill out and come down from the season. Not to mention that Kosmo was not yet named;;; BUT in this au there is no Seinfeld and Keith doesn't meet the other paladins till later, so I figure I can get away with it?? Idk i'm sORRY. please enjoy the very subtle metaphors tho

Despite all appearances, Keith supposes he isn’t your average human. Besides never having visited Earth, he doesn’t mind the sting the space dust leaves in his eyes, or the way the acrid atmosphere chokes him on particularly hot days, and he doesn’t have a problem with the smell of quintessent fuel ripping a hole in the sky after blasting off from the outpost he calls home.

The Marmora Outpost is an auto garage crossed with an orphanage crossed with a bodega, and also home to five veteran Galra soldiers, one (albeit half) human, and a shooting star that turned out to be a wolf. Her name is the Galran word for “safety,” which is also coincidentally the first word that Keith learns in Galra.

Thanks to his overprotective guardians, the Outpost is Keith’s first, second, and unfortunately, third place; he sleeps and eats in the same building where he performs inadvisable muffler deletes and engine upgrades, and sometimes when a remotely good looking racer pulls into the Outpost for a tune up before a race, Keith even gets to fuck in it. It’s not much for weekend entertainment, but it’s better than any of the games and stories that Antok and Regris come up with to try and match his craving for adventure.

It’s a full time job keeping Keith’s feet on the ground, especially when he knows that he could be putting his engineering skills to work on a hoverbike or pod racing crew. By some stroke of luck, the nearest habitable planet to the Outpost is Vetrao: a dry and hot planet with thin air and fairly low gravity--a canicular cocktail for high-speed races. 

The Outpost is conveniently plotted where racers can stop by for tune-ups, paint-jobs, and snacks for the road. For as long as Keith can remember, he’s seen pods that were anywhere between fluorescent green and bedizened in decals and stickers to bikes that were caked so thickly in rust that they could’ve been mistaken for ancient armored creatures.

“Can we go see the races some time?” Keith asks once when he is still a fresh acolyte to the wrench, watching three brightly painted pods tear into the atmosphere on their way to Vetrao. A whiff of the sweet and spicy stardust from their wake leaves him feeling dizzy.

“No. Don’t ask me again,” Kolivan grunts from underneath a two-seater pod he’s working on, twisting a bolt so tight it warps the metal of the bumper. “Fuck!” 

*


	2. Three Squares

It’s a day like any other, with a pleasant temperature that only requires a light jacket and no unusual atmospheric stink in the air, which usually means a slow but steady stream of patrons. Such an average day is Keith’s best bet to getting an affirmative answer to the question he's been sitting on. 

The morning passes in its usual way, starting with Keith wrestling Thace in the hallway for access to the shower only to realize that Kolivan has swept past them and taken it for himself. They do wrench-paper-pliers to determine who goes next and Keith wipes the floor with Thace.  
After Keith’s shower, he makes for the kitchen and bumps fists with Regris who has prepared the breakfast buffet line. Taking a slice of soda bread, he smears fruit jam over it and washes it down with ice cold water; the cogs of his morning routine comb together and he’s fully awake.

Alert and energized, Keith switches the Outpost auto-garage to open ten minutes early and takes to working on his bike, making the last minute touch-ups to the paint job, triple-checking the plugs in the engine, revving it for the hell of it. It sounds like the thrumming bass of a song he could listen to forever. 

The noise harkens a slow but steady stream of clients and patrons to the garage, some of whom greet Keith with old familiarity, others with polite reverence. Keith and Kolivan take turns fixing up the autos that come through, from passenger pods to cargo runners to a disproportionate amount of racers on their last stop before Vetrao. Regris and Ulaz pop by, taking breaks from the cash register in the bodega to offer snacks.

This is Keith’s life on the Outpost. And while he cherishes the way he gets to spend his days, when the racers swing in with their glistening bikes and glittering confidence, Keith can’t always suppress the jealous feeling in his gut. No matter how fast he goes on the gentle slopes of the Outpost, nothing could possibly compare to the thrill of facing eager racers on rocky, wild Vetrao. 

Clients love to ask him about his story, what a human’s doing all the way out here, but Keith has always been of a taciturn nature. Plus, his life on the Outpost is nowhere near as exciting as the racers’ or navigators’ who stop by. He makes sure to drink up every unique character appearance and plot twist to their stories. It makes him feel closer to the galaxy somehow.

Later that day when Keith joins his family at the table for his lunch break, he notices that Ulaz has prepared scrambled jarf. A salty, spicy, and somewhat complicated dish, jarf is for when Ulaz is feeling particularly benevolent and in the mood to spoil everyone. Keith flicks a glance toward the calendar to see if it’s a holiday that he missed, tries to make sense of the placated expressions on everyone’s faces, but comes up short. 

The unprompted generosity and the jarf weigh heavy on his tongue next to the question he’s been meaning to ask. It’s been a while since he's brought up. 

Antok, ever perceptive, seems to catch wind of his intentions however, and obviates by interjecting.

“Regris, bring over the lava juice please,” he says, gesturing a meaty palm toward the fridge and where Regris is chopping up relish for the jarf. “And tell me about what that client with the trailer said to you.” Keith narrows his eyes at Antok. Regris’s stories can last all of lunch.

“First of all, who brings a Yambor-219 to an auto-garage?” Regris laughs in disbelief, handing Antok the juice and setting down the bowl of relish on the table. “Secondly…” Keith tunes him out and scoops the relish onto his jarf and stuffs his mouth shut, trying to swallow the question, choking around it as well as the too-big bite of jarf. He remembers to listen again when Antok claps him on the back and asks him if he’s alright. 

“I’m fine,” Keith stresses, meeting Antok’s eyes with an intense look. He’s still going to ask and both of them know it. Antok gives a meaningful glance in Kolivan’s direction and Keith shakes his head. The tension is rising on their side of the table while the others listen to and laugh at Regris’s story.

“That’s why those types have no business stopping by here,” Thace shakes his head at whatever Regris’s story was about. “They know what happened and they come anyway, thinking we can prevent the inevitable. Just because Kolivan’s won the Vetrao Grand Prix more than anyone else before the—”

“What?” Keith asks too loudly, coming back to the conversation like a meteor to earth. “Won the Grand Prix? What is he talking about?” 

“Keith, please,” Antok says, soft but stern, giving Thace a sour look for spilling the beans after all these years. 

“I mean,” Thace says slowly. “Helped his _friends_. Win the Grand Prix. Haha.” Thace is the worst liar in this solar system.

“Kolivan,” Keith croaks. “You’ve been telling me that I’m not allowed to race all this time and you go behind my back and race anyway?”

An icy silence settles over the table as everyone waits to see if Kolivan will engage or not. It’s a day like any other, however, which means he absolutely will.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kolivan’s rumbling voice slices the quiet. Thace wilts a little more under Kolivan’s disapproving tone. “That is a thing of the past.”

“I want to race,” Keith said, dropping his spork (space fork). “You do it, why can’t I? I’m twenty-two, I’m an adult. I can do it.”

“You are _not_ an adult,” Kolivan snorts, which cuts deeper than Keith would like to admit.

“By Galra standards? Maybe not. But from what I know, fifty in human years isn’t exactly the prime of one’s life,” Keith counters, his blood boiling. He’s so tired of their ridiculous excuses and the unrealistic metrics he’s held to. He bets that no one on Earth has ever had to deal with family this frustrating.

“I don’t want you going out there,” Kolivan sighs, as firm as ever. “Don’t want you getting mixed up in things you don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand? You go, you race, and you win or lose. Simple.” Their voices are getting louder and Keith thinks he hears the wolf bark in defiance from the living room.

“Keith, don’t make me say it again.” Kolivan’s knuckles pale around his spork. “I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s too dangerous. If you go, you’re putting more than just your physical safety at risk. You have no idea what happens at those races. Cerebrate for two minutes before you open your mouth and let this racing drivel spill out again.”

“Forget this,” Keith huffs, pushing away from the table and bolting out the back door toward his bike. He imagines that the rippling crackle of the engine echoes into the kitchen and punctuates his point, but his anger doesn’t evaporate quite like the exhaust does.

*

The Marmora Outpost is more of an oversized asteroid than a planet; it’s only thanks to its rich atmosphere that it qualifies for planet status. 

Keith sits on a rock. On top of the bigger rock that is the Outpost. Surrounded by other rocks. The monotony is both soothing and infuriating. He knows this place like the back of his hand, but at what cost? He doesn’t know anywhere else at all.

Before he finds the rock, Keith makes sure to race the horizon as fast as he can until he kicks up too much dust and angers his bike for the sharp corners he takes. He sits and feels prickly like a cactus. Next to him, his bike sighs, cooling off.

From fifty meters away, Keith sees a flash of light and his heart feels a little lighter knowing at least the wolf will join him in his sulk. With a flash, she covers twenty meters, then twenty more. She keeps a short distance between her and Keith until he opens his arms and says, “C’mere Iyaya.” Pleased, she apparates into them and licks his face with renewed vigor.

Keith scratches her behind the ears and Iyaya settles over his lap.

“Sorry I yelled,” Keith tells her, practicing for when one of his biped family members shows up to scold him. “I’m just… it’s so frustrating that they have all this life experience but are too afraid to let me get some. Don’t I need to make my own mistakes?”

Iyaya looks at Keith with dark, wet eyes.

“Thanks for listening,” he says, cut off by the unmistakable whirr of a fleet of engines. Five pods appear in the distance in formation, matte black except for the one in the front, which is a polished white that glimmers against the dark rock of the Outpost’s surface. Their trajectory interacts with where Keith is sitting, and while two of the bikes keep going, headed toward the fuel pumps and the house, two pull over toward Keith, including the white bike. 

The rider from the white bike clicks the release on his neck and his helmet collapses down to reveal a shock of long white hair and features sharp enough to shear the dust clouds they’d kicked up. He is Galra by all means, but there is something unique about his features and something off about his person.

“That your bike?” The man asks. His voice is deep, luxurious, supercilious.

Keith nods.

The man looks at him carefully, then spends an equal amount of time appraising his bike. After a moment, he asks, “Might I ask where you acquired such a bike?”

“I built it,” Keith says.

“Perhaps you mean this Outpost’s Galra built it,” The man challenges him with the arch of a well-shaped eyebrow.

“Yep,” Keith spits, keeps his consonants short. “That'd be me.” He has never appreciated the way people assume he’s arrogating his race, but he doesn’t miss the way the man’s face softens as he stakes his claim. “I’m half,” Keith adds, the truth both stinging and soothing.

“So am I,” the man says, the haughty note in his voice gone. Keith knows it’s naive, but he instantly feels a kinship with the man. The man drops to one knee and Keith mirrors him. “Lotor.”

“Keith.” 

“Keith,” Lotor echoes, rising to his feet. “Your hoverbike really is a work of art. I saw the way it maneuvered earlier. Will you be racing at Vetrao, then?”

“I might,” Keith bluffs. Iyaya nudges him with her snout because all dogs are the patron saints of honesty, but Keith doesn’t falter. 

“By yourself? It’s best to ride with a team, you know. Pair racing is the most popular event,” Lotor explains, breaking eye contact and looking at Keith’s bike as he speaks.  
The rider from the black bike joins them, helmet off. Her body is compact and muscular and the pout on her face exudes practiced impatience. She, too, appears to be of mixed race.

“I don’t think he has a team, Lotor,” she says.

“Acxa,” Lotor chides. “We can’t assume things about others.”

“You mean the way you did thirty ticks ago?” Acxa asks, her eyebrows drawing into a skeptical slope.

“Well he could always join our team,” Lotor says to Keith’s bike more than Acxa, ignoring her jab. Weighing his options and the way Lotor is more interested in Keith’s bike than the engineer, he clenches a fist so tightly his knuckles crack and makes a decision.

“I have a team,” Keith says, swearing he catches Iyaya roll her eyes in his peripheral.

“Do they all have rides like yours?”

“Nope. Just me. This is a custom rig.”

“Well then,” Lotor says, the breeze sweeping up his elegant hair. “We’ll be seeing you at the races then. Let us know if you’d like to change sides. Who knows, our team may have an opening by then. Preliminaries start… tomorrow, is it?” He turns to Acxa for confirmation and her curt nod gives Keith all the information he needs. “Best of luck,” he grins, toothy, white, and specious.

The riders rip toward the main buildings of the Outpost. With a gentle nudge, Keith remembers Iyaya and he scratches her back. “Don’t tell anyone, ok girl?” 

*

The sun begins to set. 

As improbable as it is, light reaches the Marmora outpost at nearly the same rate as Earth, so their days and years are alike in length. That’s the thought that gives Keith solace against the hollow backdrop of black space. It’s the only thing all the way out here that connects him to the birthplace he hardly knows. Before he could witness Earth’s big skies, crackling thunderheads, crystal waters, green grass or red cliffs, Keith was already living at the Marmora outpost. They were his closest relatives, ironically enough, 260 light years away.

Keith spends much of the day sitting on the rocks, thinking, and taking his bike on hills and curves and wondering if he can really pull off what’s been brewing in his head. Iyaya keeps a circumspect eye on him, running along the bike, playfully blinking into view ahead of and behind Keith.

A rumble in his stomach reminds Keith that he hasn’t eaten since the scrambled jarf this morning. The length of the rumble suggests that his sulk will have to end sooner than later. It sucks, because Keith had made that whole speech about being an adult and everything, but the idea of walking back into the house and eating somehow feels like losing.

Before Keith has to confront an ultimatum, he is joined by Antok.

“Hungry?” Antok asks, sitting next to Keith without waiting for an answer. In his hands is a metal bowl full of a thick brew of soup. “I made slumgullion.” 

Keith tries to hide his trembling hands by taking the bowl before Antok can bear witness to his pitiful, hungry state. A spoonful of the slumgullion washes down Keith’s throat and floods him with warmth, relief, and comfort. He can’t hold back a pleased noise and Antok smiles, happy to make amends in some capacity.

“A few racers came through earlier. They said they talked to you,” Antok prompts, testing the waters.

“Yeah,” Keith says after a long pause. “The guy was…” Keith searched for a word that could succinctly describe Lotor. “Fluffy.” Antok belly laughs at Keith’s word choice and agrees.

“The fluffy one had nothing but good things to say about your bike. I thanked him and talked you up a little.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Keith murmurs into his soup, pausing in his ministrations. It feels good that someone is proud of him, especially after the shameful scene he had made at breakfast that morning. As frustrating as it can be, Keith's sure that he won’t ever find the words that can describe his gratitude for the concept of family, or their capacity for forgiveness when things come to blows.

Antok scoots a little closer and gestures for Keith to keep eating.

“You are so important to me, Keith,” Antok says while Keith eats. “You are so important to all of us. Before you, we were just a bunch of bachelors running around and trying to make ends meet by selling shit we stole. But when your parents asked us for help, we knew we had to turn things around. You may feel indebted to us as guardians at times, but we wouldn’t be who we are without you. So much of who we are, we owe to you.”

Antok fingers his braids mindlessly, and Keith slows down his chewing to listen better. He doesn’t know how to accept Antok’s compliments so he says nothing.

“Kolivan should really be the one to tell you this,” Antok admits, dropping his shoulders. Unwittingly, Keith leans into to hear this history. “But we _did_ race back in the day. All of us. We were a team. Kolivan and Vrek were our main racers.

“Kolivan did solo races for the longest time, and he won them all. He was better than most and more clever than your average Galra. That’s why he’s still sort of our boss. But one day he met Vrek and Vrek was an excellent racer, and beautiful. She and Kolivan were incredible on the track together. 

“Pair racing garners so much viewership because both racers have to finish to win. The stakes are so much higher than a solo race, and everyone knows it. The racers, the timekeepers, even the track seems to have a mind of its own. 

“That was when the money wasn’t an issue anymore. At that point it was about winning, and Vrek had a real mind for it. But the more you win, the more you’re known, which means the more unknowns that can stack up against you.”

Antok pauses and Keith thinks he might end there. In his head, he tries to predict the end of the story. All his life on the Outpost, not one person had ever mentioned anyone named Vrek. He walks through the house in his mind but he can’t find any pictures of her. He can only guess as to why.

“That’s how Vrek went down,” Antok reveals. “She and Kolivan were targeted during a qualifying race. Two teams ganged up on them and shot the peripheral jets on her bike. The fans stalled and she—” 

Antok doesn’t have to finish for Keith to understand.

Keith stays quiet, although attentive to whatever Antok may need from him. While this happened years ago, the sting stills seems to linger like a brand.

“Thank you for telling me,” Keith says, considering the heavy weight of this new knowledge. “I had no idea.” 

“It’s not easy for any of us to talk about. Kolivan, he… I don’t think he ever really got over it, to be honest,” Antok says, voice thin, shoulders hunched. “Which is why he’s so shaken up about you, Keith. After everything you’ve done for us, he can’t imagine losing you the same way he lost Vrek.”

Understanding rings in Keith’s chest like a bell. It reverberates off the walls of his chest and he lets it ring, lets it hurt. And then he lets it go.

“I’m not Vrek.” When Keith speaks without pretense, Antok whips his head around to look at him with glassy, honest eyes. Keith’s pragmatism is what reminds Antok that indeed, he isn’t Vrek. He’s Keith. And he’s more like Kolivan than anyone cares to admit.

“You’re not,” Antok agrees, standing up. “But you are one of us. I know you fall prey to the mantra that you aren’t just because you’re different. But hear me this: you are one of us.”

Turning on his heel, Antok makes to leave but suddenly stops on a dime, and before Keith can process what’s happening, Antok has swept him into his arms into a tight hug, squeezing a thin smile out of him.

“Thank you, Antok,” Keith says. It won’t do either of them any good to apologize.

Antok drops Keith back down and yanks Keith’s right arm where he wears his Pan-Galactic Serial Number band. Meeting him in the middle, Antok knocks his own PGSN band against Keith’s and transfers him 8,000 credits.

“Antok—” Keith chokes on the implications.

“The entry fee for most races is 1,500 credits. Everything else is for food, a place to sleep, whatever else you might need.”

“I can’t—” 

“Go,” Antok grins, gripping both of Keith’s shoulders. “See what you want to see. Do what you need to do. And then _come back_.”

Keith nods furiously, eyes screwed shut and trying to hold back unexpected tears. He embraces Antok again and they share a belly laugh, then watches him walk back to the house. Leaning back against the rock, his plans set like concrete.

His slumgullion long finished, Keith sets the bowl down and watches Iyaya make quick work of cleaning it.

“Iyaya,” he cooes. “I’m going racing.”

*


	3. Vetrao

It’s the middle of the night, noiseless except for the ozone drone, when Keith loads up one of their cargo delivery ships that they use for transporting parts when needed, which isn’t very often; Keith doesn’t let himself feel too guilty for borrowing it for a couple of days. It’s exactly what he needs for his trip: the front is compact enough that it only fits one pilot while the bed can comfortably host his hoverbike and luggage. 

He taxis the cargo ship to the runway, shifts down, and hops out so he can look at the house one last time before he goes. Without any of the lights on, Keith realizes that after years of wear and tear, it’s run down enough to pass as abandoned. A little prize money could go toward fixing up the siding or roofing, Keith thinks, filing the idea away for later.

Only Iyaya is there to see him off, because the Creator did not forget that sentience is a heavy burden and was kind enough to have made canines, as well as to have given canines the unusually acute and remarkable talent for knowing when to be concerned as well as looking the part. She nudges his legs and respectfully doesn’t bark, although she looks like she wants to. If only Kolivan could read the room as well as Antok and Iyaya can.

“I’ll see you later, girl,” Keith whispers, patting Iyaya one last time, pulling himself back onto the ship. Iyaya stands up on her back legs for one more behind-the-ear scratch and a look that says _be careful_. She’s the last thing Keith sees before he secures the door and takes a seat in the cockpit.

Zipping up his suit and pulling his hood on, his HUD lights up and indicates his respirators are activated and his body temperature is regulated for liftoff. Anticipated travel time three vargas.

With a deep breath, Keith feels an ocean crash over him, waves of unease followed by stronger waves of conviction. He throws the ship into gear and makes for the stars.

He reaches Vetrao’s outer orbit fifteen dobashes ahead of his Galactic Positioning System’s predicted time. Stopping on Vetrao’s biggest moon, he stops in one of the several stalling lots and pays the 80 credits to park overnight. Even though Antok gave him enough credits for a nice hotel, Keith intends to return as much of it as possible. He’s slept in the cargo ship on runs before and has no reservations that while it won’t be comfortable, it’s his most realistic option.

Once his ablutions and routines are done, Keith settles into the reclined pilot seat, shifting around to get comfortable but not before triple checking his alarm to assure he won’t miss registration. Alone in the silence, anxiety breeds. His cargo ship doesn’t stand out against the other rusty and dinged up vessels, but he still feels as though the walls of the ship are transparent to all passerby, his shame on full display. He’s borrowed a ship without asking, deliberately gone against his guardians’ wishes, and he didn’t even bother to patch things up with Kolivan before he took off. Keith knows he’s going to get hell from all of them when he gets back. _If he gets back_ , an intrusive thought wiggles in. 

He smothers the negative thought. There won’t be a point to this trip if he doesn’t make it back safely. Hopefully he can also manage to make it back with deeper pockets, too. All he can do at this point is accept the fact that he’s committed to his choice.

Exhausted, Keith passes out soon enough.

*

Keith wakes up with his alarm, relieved at having slept the night through. The hype makes his bones vibrate and he jumpstarts the ship with a burst of energy, beginning his declivity onto Vetrao’s surface. Leaving orbit and entering the atmosphere triggers the windshield of the ship to alight with Vetrao’s welcome message and directions that guide Keith to the customs dock. He lands with no issue, scans his PGSN at the desk and is given papers and permits to stay on Vetrao. He signs several waivers.

“Will you be racing?” The reception asks him.

“Maybe,” Keith says honestly, but the reception doesn’t have protocols for ambivalence.

“ _Will you be racing?_ ” They ask again.

“Yes,” Keith says curtly, subsequently signing three more waivers.

Keith is assigned a space in Lot 55, designated for the pair racing tracks. He had intended to make his way to the solo races, but he keeps thinking about what he’d told Lotor and thinking about how it’d be lame if he didn’t show like he promised.

Cruising through the lots is exhilarating. Truck after truck, cargo ship after cargo ship, racers have set up camp outside their carriers, worshipping their rides like idols, the paint polish and decals as holy texts, the plugs and bolts as ornate offerings. Teams cook breakfast over small campfires, tune up whining engines, and step into team uniforms. Some teams are already headed for the starting line.

Keith finds his spot in Lot 55 and looks around. There is only one other vehicle remotely near his, which is unsurprising considering his late registration. He wonders if this truck is here on the same premise.

Once parked, he changes into clothes better suited for racing than space travel. He tucks his pants into his boots but doesn’t pay much mind to tucking in his t-shirt. The most important article is his jacket, which everyone says used to be his mom’s. The sleeves are a little long and the waist is a little short, but the shock of red leather energizes Keith and makes him feel lucky.

Unlike the house on the Outpost, the cargo ship bathroom has a mirror in it. Keith so rarely sees himself that he’s caught off guard by the way he can see a difference in his reflection. His face has lost the puffy softness of adolescence. His hair tickles the bottom of his neck with a length he’s neglected to care about. And he looks strong, healthy, older, nervous. He does not look Galra.

Malaise hits him full force and Keith makes a firm decision to soothe the fear: unless something miraculous happens and he feels inexplicably drawn to the track, Keith will only watch the races. Either that or he’ll watch today and find a team to race with tomorrow. And then he’ll go back to the Outpost.

Yeah.

A flurry of activity from outside has Keith curious to see if his neighbors are up and around. But his nerves are still atwitter, so he takes a moment to calm down by eating the modest breakfast he’d nabbed from the kitchen before leaving. He washes it down with resolve to take his bike out for a test run to see how it rides on the terrain.

Unlocking the bed of the ship, Keith half-regrets not bringing Iyaya along. She would’ve made good company.

Sharp sunlight floods the truck and Keith gently guides his bike out onto the planet’s surface, taking a deep breath of the fragrant air, which Keith thinks comes from the patches of redolent weeds scattered all over. They emanate a sweet, dewy scent that makes the whole place smell like summer evenings. The dirt is a magnificent red and everywhere is flat for miles except for rainbow plateaus that frame the horizon.

He closes his eyes for a moment and lets a cool breeze tangle its fingers in his hair.

A wolf whistle ends the reverie.

“Wow,” a deep, impressed voice says over the whistle. “That is one hell of a bike.”

Keith turns around to see two people, two _humans_ , admiring his ride. Maybe this is the reason the truck is his only neighbor.

The two humans are a deko-boko kind of pair, one big and one small, dark where the other is light. The melange of gratitude, curiosity, and wariness of the situation gives Keith indigestion.

“Thank you,” Keith replies. “Where are yours?”

“Our team’s bikes are out on the steppe for a morning ride. We’re the engineers. The others probably be back soon, you can see them then!” The big guy speaks in a jovial, easy way that helps Keith lower his guard. He feels compelled as a fellow human to be as open-minded as possible.

“What’s the model, if I can ask?” The short one who whistled asks. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“There is no model,” Keith says.

“I mean, who's the manufacturer?” She tries again, taking a step forward. Keith offers a small smile, flattered at the interest. 

“Me. It’s homemade.” 

The stranger tilts her head, interest piqued as the light of the sun catches her glasses and obscures any detail of her reaction.

“Can I see?” She asks excitedly. Keith can tell she’s completely genuine, an authentic engineer. Compared to the way Lotor had expressed his interest, Keith wouldn’t mind sharing his work so much with these two. 

“When I come back,” he promises nonchalantly, activating the helmet on his safety collar and tearing off toward the open plains.

*

Keith takes his time enjoying the freedom he’s been dreaming about. Somehow, the bike runs even better on Vetrao than it does at the Outpost. Everything about its riding is smooth; it takes turns like they’re straights and takes straights like they’re downhill slopes. He practices going over and around the shallow potholes and along the deeper trenches that crack the desert steppe.

The sun crests over a distant plateau and bathes the canyons in a vermillion that knocks the breath out of Keith’s lungs. He hits the brakes and skids to a halt so he can take in the scene around him. Leaning back in his seat, he rests for a bit, enjoying the warmth of the morning sun on his face. He softly hums and lets his eyes flutter shut.

Until the bumble of an engine grows near. 

Keith looks around frantically to source the noise but what gives it away is a cloud of desert dust in the wake of a sleek black hoverbike. It splits through the canyon, tearing up a foothill and heading straight for the edge without slowing down. Keith tries to process what he’s seeing, heart jumping to his throat when he connects the dots.

The racer intends to jump.

The racer sluices the apogee of the hill with a deft twist of the bike, arching out over the edge like a comet. They float for what could be hours or nanoseconds and Keith feels simultaneously jealous and terrified, the latter more so as the racer begins to plummet straight downward. On instinct, Keith activates his helmet, kicks the ignition, and shifts into gear, racing toward the perpendicular axis of the racer and the ground.

But the racer lands with finesse. Keith observes the peripheral jets of their bike rotate, setting the bike into a gentle arc, the momentum carrying the racer forward for a stretch of several hundred meters.

Keith doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he laughs, relieved and in awe.

The racer on the black bike swings around to where Keith has his handles in a death grip. Keith hears the racer laughing, a sound like a bell.

“Was that wild or what?” The racer’s voice is deep and mirthful, still high from the jump and tickled by the fact they had an audience. Adjusting their position on the bike, Keith takes note of how tall and muscular they are. They collapse their safety collars and Keith is met with the knowledge that all the height and width has an unreasonably handsome, smiling face to match. He’s human, too. “I hope I didn’t scare you. Sorry about that.”

“That was amazing,” Keith sighs, still in shock. “How did you—can you teach me how to do that?” 

“I don’t know…” the man says slowly, grinning. “Don’t want the competition knowing all my secrets.”

“I’m not racing,” Keith says too quickly, thinking about his ultimatum from this morning. The man's grin changes a little and Keith feel naïve for not catching on to the man's subtle humor. 

“In that case,” the man extends his arm toward Keith. “I’m Shiro.”

Keith stares at Shiro’s hand and wonders what he’s supposed to do. After a too-long pause, Shiro apologizes and asks that Keith forgive him, it’s a human custom in some places.

“Ah, no, uh,” Keith says eloquently. “I’m human, too.” He’d forgotten that his helmet was still up, so he collapses it to punctuate his words. The wind is stronger here, and Keith runs a hand through his hair so it doesn’t fly into his face.

Shiro blinks at Keith in disbelief, his mouth slightly parted. “O-oh,” he stammers. “Hold on, you don’t know what a handshake is?”

“I’m Galra, too,” Keith explains. “I’ve never been to Earth.”

“ _Whoa_ ,” Shiro’s eyes go wide. Keith understands that he must be an anomaly to Shiro. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t but, uh. It’s Keith.”

Keith is a little unnerved by Shiro’s sunny and relentless smile, but he takes it as a positive. Anything to win him over and teach him how to jump like that. And to teach him about the handshake. Which sounds straightforward enough, but Keith doesn’t know if they shake hands together or individually. He asks Shiro as much and earns a laugh.

“Like this,” Shiro says, gently grabbing a hold of Keith’s hand and moving it up and down. “A simple handshake. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” Keith agrees, thinking about how cool it is that he’s meeting another human and learning about human things. He wants to return the favor. “Do you know how Galra introduce themselves to new people?”

Shiro shakes his head no. “How?”

“We kneel, like this,” Keith demonstrates going down to one knee. He clasps his hands over his leg and looks up at Shiro, who is smiling. 

“Where I’m from, this has a different meaning,” Shiro says fondly while mirroring Keith’s pose. “Usually a marriage proposal.”

“Marriage,” Keith echoes, neck slightly craned to meet Shiro’s eyes.

“You know, like, two people who love each other very much—oh wait, I think I heard something about Galra marriages! They’re a bit less rigid than ours, right?”

Keith is stuck trying to parse meaning from Shiro’s slip-up. Two people? He thinks about his five guardians on the Outpost and tries to imagine only two of them, laughing to himself at the idea of how imbalanced only having Kolivan and Regris would be without Thace, Ulaz, and Antok. He notices Shiro watching him and he comes back to the moment.

“Anyway, thank you.” Shiro stands up and looks impressed. “You learn something new every day.” 

“It’s a little tough if you’ve got bad knees,” Keith adds, standing back up and thinking of Ulaz. “But it’s tradition.”

“Thank you for showing me,” Shiro’s smile grows a little brighter. Before he’s blinded by its shine, Keith remembers to take his chance.

“So do you wanna show me how you pulled off that jump?”

Shiro bites his lip, watching Keith while deep in thought. Keith thinks it might be a test.

“Only if you tell me whose team you’re on,” Shiro wagers. Keith’s shoulders drop a little and he wonders if the truth won’t be valuable enough to trade in order to learn the jump. 

“I’m not on a team.”

“Wait, what? You came without a team?” Shiro asks, incredulous.

Keith thinks about telling Shiro a lie or a story or being honest and saying that he doesn’t have a team in the first place and has never officially raced at all before. For whatever reason, he envisions a Shiro with a disappointed expression and it cracks something in him to the point of deciding that omission is likely his greatest ally in this situation. He probably won’t race anyway and by tomorrow when it’s all said and done he’ll be back at the Outpost and he’ll never see Shiro again. So he shakes his head no and waits for Shiro’s judgement. 

After a potent silence and skeptical nod from Shiro, Keith decides he’ll give up. He throws a leg over his bike and starts the engine, intending to ride back and leave. Of course he was in over his head. Who shows up to pair racing completely alone? Even if he had brought Iyaya, she’s a wolf, and everyone knows wolves can’t drive. “Sorry to bother you, good luck,” Keith gets stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll show you,” Shiro offers. “I guess I’m just surprised that you’re here alone. Don’t let the arrant bureaucracy fool you, Vetrao can be kinda shady.” 

“Thanks,” Keith responds, fighting off the need to convince the world that he’s _fine_. But he reminds himself that it’s a salutary concern coming from Shiro, not the manacles of duty from a guardian. He grits his teeth and remembers to breathe. “So whose team are you on?”

“My own,” Shiro says easily. “Four members total. I’m the captain and we go by Voltron. It’s a long story,” he adds, laughing and hopping onto his bike. “If you manage to land the jump I’ll tell you.”

Keith thinks this might be another test, but Shiro’s relaxed eyes are unrelenting. The worry dissipates when Shiro hops revs the engine and activates his helmet, nodding toward the foothills.

“Deal,” Keith says.

“Great,” Shiro nods. “Follow me!”

*

After a few thorough practice landings off of low cliffs, Keith lands the big jump without trouble. It should come as no surprise seeing as he’s been riding since he was tall enough to see over the dash, and his bike is in the best condition it’s ever been in. Either way, he follows Shiro’s instructions closely, and his drop and landing is as thrilling as it looked. His stomach still feels like it’s falling long after he’s landed and he tells Shiro as much, laughing and whooping with the adrenaline. Shiro is just as excited for Keith as the man himself. As a thanks, Keith gives Shiro two handshakes and tells him, “Nice to meet you!”

The canyon fills with their laughter and Keith lets himself appreciate the sound of Shiro’s.

“We should head back,” Keith says. “Sun’s getting high. Are you racing today?”

“Tomorrow,” Shiro says, wiping sweat from his brow. “Do you have any lunch plans?”

Keith tries to not think about how he was about to ask Shiro the same question, or how Shiro is his type.

“Nope. You?”

“Yeah. You should eat with me. And my team,” Shiro offers. Keith assents and they head back to the parking lots together. Heading back turns into a playful race, and right when Keith thinks he has Shiro beat, Shiro hits a speed that Keith didn’t know he had. On their approach to the lots, they get scolded by a bright yellow monitoring vehicle honks at them and demanding that they slow down.

They end up in Lot 55. Unsurprisingly, Shiro’s team is the other humans parked next to Keith.

“Everyone, this is Keith,” Shiro introduces. “You’ll be okay with the handshakes, right?” He says lowly enough that only Keith can hear. Keith retaliates with a friendly push to Shiro’s shoulder, which doesn’t move him at all since he's so sturdy.

“We met,” the short one from earlier says. “Will you show me your bike now that you’ve befriended our team captain?”

“Sorry I drove off,” Keith says. “I just had to go.”

“Not like I haven’t heard that before,” she says pointedly, glancing at Shiro. “I’m Pidge, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Pidge,” Keith says, confidently taking her hand and shaking it like Shiro taught him. “Where’s the other guy?” 

“You mean Hunk? He’s out grabbing stuff for lunch with Lance,” Pidge tries to walk over to where Keith’s bike is but Shiro stops her.

“Pidge, about lunch, I was wondering if it'd be alright if Keith joined us?” Shiro asks. “He’s here alone and I thought…”

While Shiro trails off and shrugs his shoulders in the most innocent way possible, Pidge sees something that makes her eyes narrow in suspicion. She and Shiro exchange a few words that go unheard by Keith, but he doesn’t mind. He’s the guest here, after all.

“That’s fine,” Pidge says in a volume everyone can hear. “Now tell me about your baby, Keith. Shiro, you can come over when the campfire is set up.”

Keith and Pidge walk a slow circle around Keith’s bike while he narrates the different assets and parts. Out of his peripheral, Keith can see Shiro preparing the fire, occasionally peering over and sheepishly trying to listen into the conversation. Keith’s train of thought is interrupted when he sees Shiro languidly stripping out of his racing jacket. Underneath is just a grey tank top, stretched tightly over the expanse of his wide chest. Keith appreciates his waist ratio and takes note of the robotic prosthetic that is his right arm.

Shiro catches him watching right as Pidge clears her throat.

“Sorry, what was that?” Keith asks, hoping the blare of noon sun effectively disguises his blush.

“I said, what kind of engine did you start with?”

“I based it on a modified vee, internal combustion.”

“Old school, then. Not a fan of boxers?”

“No, the vee cylinders have more kick at startup than the boxer ones. Not to mention they keep me going faster, longer. You do boxer?”

“Yeah, that’s how the models came. We just modified them to pop more cylinders in. It’s sort of a pipe dream of mine to build one from scratch though. Where’d you get the parts anyhow?”

“I work at a garage.”

Pidge nods in a wide arc, starting to understand Keith’s engineering abilities a little better. She explains that she and Hunk base their constructions and engineering on their specialties in physical and theoretical sciences. Though much of the jargon goes way over Keith’s head, he still thinks it’s cool how they both ended up in the same place via totally different routes. 

“So racing is like your job?” Keith asks.

“Yep,” Pidge grins. “We were all involved in different stuff before, but running away from those things and racing were common interests. So now we spend most of our time on racing planets like Vetrao, Offyi, Kulja. It’s good money if you can place. First prize is great but second and third are safer.”

Keith wonders what she means by that but doesn't bring it up again, and they talk shop for a while longer until Shiro coaxes them over to the fire he’s kindled. He still hasn’t put his jacket back on and Keith is not upset about it, although the proximity is a little intimidating. Keith knows he’s small compared to his Galra guardians, but between Pidge and Shiro he’s not really sure where he lies. Although he’d like to bet that everyone feels a little smaller in contrast with Shiro. Keith likes that.

Shiro points him to a cooler with drinks and tells Keith to take whatever he wants from it. Colorful bottles and cans demand Keith’s attention, some with labels Keith has never seen and others that they consistently sell at the Bodega on the Outpost.

“What’s ‘root beer’?” Keith asks, picking up a copper bottle and examining a blithesome mustachioed man on the label. 

“Ambrosia,” Pidge sighs at the same time Shiro grimaces and says, “Poison.” Keith doesn’t know who to believe so he flounders for a minute until Pidge offers to drink the rest it if he doesn’t like it.

“Oh,” Keith says after sniffing the open bottle, taken aback by the robust aroma. He expects it to smell somewhere between creamy and metallic but it lands around fermented and floral. “Are you sure you can drink this?”

“Brace yourself,” Shiro wears a stressed and sympathetic expression and Keith is sort of worried he’s going to throw up or something.

But it turns out that the only weird part about the root beer is that Keith feels like he’s drinking four different things at once. It’s sweet and tangy, strong yet subtle. 

“I like it,” he decides, taking another sip to confirm. Pidge whoops with pride, skipping over to grab a root beer for herself. 

“What do you like?” Keith asks Shiro.

“The good stuff,” Shiro waltzes over and pulls out a bright green concoction that could go toe to toe with a nuclear reaction. “Melon soda.”

“Clearly a drink meant for the elite classes,” Keith says sarcastically.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Shiro grins, drinking and pulling the bottle from his lips with a pop. He tilts the bottle toward Keith as an offer.

The melon soda isn’t as bad as he was anticipating but Keith decides he’s partial to the menagerie of flavors in the root beer. Pidge welcomes Keith to the light side and pushes Shiro away from both of them, bidding him to “return to the green melon hell from whence he crawled.”

It’s nice to stand around a fire and spend time with other people, Keith thinks, appreciating Shiro and Pidge’s banter. This is the longest he’s ever been near other humans before, and among the longest he’s been without the constant company of his Galra guardians. On rare occasion he’ll meet another human at the Outpost, but it’s not like they all have the same interests beyond pod fuel and oil changes.

He recognizes this as a unique encounter and settles on the idea that he’s going to make the most of it.

Right when a comfortable silence settles around the fire, a lite pod carrying two passengers whirrs into the campsite. Seated on it are two coolers, the other engineer from this morning, and a lanky pilot who is making honking noises with his mouth and not the pod horn. Keith puts two and two together and names them in his head.

“Order up,” Hunk greets, dismounting the pod and noticing the extra addition to the group. “Oh hey! How was your ride?” 

“Hey,” Keith says, “Sorry for just taking off. I’m Keith.”

“I’m Hunk, though you’ve probably heard already. And no worries for driving off into the distance like a lone wolf. Any decent racer is appropriately mysterious.”

“I’m assuming I was introduced as well,” presumably Lance interjects. “I’m Lance, star pilot of the team. Shiro races with me.” Keith shakes his hand, too.

“I think you’ll find that Lance races with Shiro,” Hunk tells Keith in an unsubtle aside, dampening Lance’s spotlight.

“It’s all a matter of perspective, Hunk, but thanks for your unyielding support,” Lance drawls.

Keith listens to them bicker and is struck with a vague jealousy of their relationship. Back on the Outpost he has his family, but Keith realizes he doesn’t really have any friends besides his wolf.

“What are they odds we ended up parked next to each other anyway?” Pidge asks, helping to unload the food coolers.

“I’d put money on Vetrao bureaucracy being a little speciest, but I’m not complaining,” Shiro suggests, flashing a smile at Keith.

“Either way, I am of the belief that humans should dine together whenever possible,” Hunk exclaims, throwing open one of the coolers. “We have excellent barbecue culture.”

“You’re lucky we got way too much food,” Lance sniffs in a tone of voice that Keith plots somewhere between begrudgingly having to share the stage and genuinely excited to be talking to someone outside of his normal social group. “I hope you like fried umyam, because we hit the jackpot at the co-op. They also had these weird ~organic~ spicy chips but I already called dibs on them!”

Hunk designates work to the team and they take turns roasting the uncooked food over the fire and plating the ready-to-eat stuff. Hunk seems to be most familiar with the cooking set-up and assures Keith that while he appreciates the help, he’d prefer if Keith thinks of himself as a guest today. He keeps close to Hunk just in case he needs him to compensate.

The food is delicious. Keith wonders if Hunk used something special to cook it or if the flavors are enhanced by their environment. Hunk preens under Keith’s praise and tells him that he can eat with them for every meal if he likes it so much.

“Thank you so much,” Keith says genuinely. “I didn’t realize all the ways a team would be so valuable.”

“Where is your team anyway?” Lance says. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“I came alone,” Keith says. “Just to watch. See the sights.” 

“I see?” Lance says, not really seeing.

“You could totally race though,” Shiro interjects. He swivels his hips to face the rest of the group. “You should’ve seen him earlier, he practically beat me on the way back here.”

“Bullshit,” Pidge says smiling. “Your ride is nice Keith, but I have yet to meet a bike faster than the ones Hunk and I’ve made.”

“Show me your bikes then,” Keith smirks, finishing the last bite of his fried umyam and moving along with the assumption that he and Pidge are on playful-arguing terms now. “Since you’re so eager to be wrong.”

“Right this way, Your Holy Wrongness,” Pidge cackles.

Pidge opens her arms and presents the two bikes with the same pride that Regris uses when he’s made a particularly successful fart joke, which is to say overwhelming and largely unfounded. But with a click and button press, Shiro’s bike hisses and the outer panels fly up to reveal the innards of the bike, and Keith recognizes that Pidge does indeed have room to brag. The term “cable management” comes to mind as he admires the organized piping and fungible wirework. The extra plugs aren’t overcrowded, the mechanisms are easy to follow, and the engine gleams in the firelight and overhead sun. Pidge sits on top the bike and the fact that her feet hardly touch the ground is a fitting metaphor. She revs the engine and the bike howls, plugs sparking and parts spinning.

An embarrassed flush rolls over him; he had gotten so distracted by Shiro that he didn’t even take time to admire the amazing craftsmanship of his bike. When Pidge shuts off the engine and the panels retract, Keith pays close attention to the smooth curvature of the bike’s frame and admires it with new eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” Keith says honestly. Pidge thanks him and explains that they were able to upgrade the bikes to their current level thanks to the team’s last big win. 

“I’d like to see you race against it,” she challenges. _I’d like to do several things against it_ , Keith thinks, looking at Shiro who waves with a smile.

“Me too,” Hunk agrees, joining them with Shiro and Lance not far behind. “It’d be cool to see your bike versus ours.”

Shiro lights up with an idea: “We can visit one of the practice arenas this evening, if you’re available.” His tone is eager and Keith can’t help but wanting a chance to race Shiro more seriously.

Keith goes over the potential outcomes in his head and ultimately agrees. Even if he doesn’t race in the competition, it’ll be good to get things out of his system through a practice race.

“Deal.”

“Excellent,” Pidge says. “Ok, follow me, we’re not done yet.”

Pidge shows him Lance’s bike after that, pointing out minor differences to accommodate the weight difference, impressing Keith that each of the bikes are attuned so meticulously to their riders. 

“And then this bike is my little guy,” Pidge cooes, leading Keith to the back of their ship. Leaned up against the corner is a… Well, Keith isn’t exactly sure what he’s looking at, but it’s safe to assume it’s a lightweight scooter pod. It’s covered with so many decals and stickers that it looks more like a living art piece than transportation. Many of the stickers are cheeky, particularly a crude effigy of someone named Zarkon being skewered on a gleaming sword.

“Who is Zarkon?” Keith asks.

“?????” Hunk says. “You don’t know who Zarkon is? Anathema to racers everywhere? The Grand Prix’s grand calumniator? Galra outlaw? Generally bad and stinky guy?”

“Yeah, I’m kinda shocked you don’t know him, Keith,” Pidge says. “I’m pretty sure he’s like, murdered people. He was on trial for it even, but the charges were dropped. Mysteriously.”

“Well it’s no mystery that he’s wealthy beyond normal standards,” Hunk suggests. “And filthy money and unscrupulous lawyers go together like a weblum and scaultrite, you know?”

“I don’t like that you always associate weblums with dirty things.”

“That’s because _you’ve_ never been in one.”

“Anyway,” Keith clears his throat, admittedly curious about how long the railleries can go on for between the two. He’s also concerned with blowing his cover and revealing how much of a rookie he is to everyone. “Sorry I don’t know him, I was kind of sheltered growing up. Does he come race here often?”

“We race against him all the time,” Shiro explains, jumping in when he realizes where the conversation is going. “He’ll probably be at the pair-racing tournament tomorrow afternoon.” A serious air falls over Shiro, his expression solemn and tone steady. “Zarkon is dangerous,” he continues, his gaze dropping to the ground and then toward his arm. Keith’s not ready to connect the dots but Shiro does it for him.

“A grudge match with Zarkon is how I ended up with this,” he says, flexing the fingers of his prosthetic. “Don’t try to start anything with him if at all possible. That’s my advice.” Shiro searches Keith’s eyes for something without a name. Whether or not he finds it, he comes down from his serious speech with a gentle smile. “I have a feeling you’re the type who goes looking for trouble.”

“Not usually,” Keith tries to argue, his mouth falling into a pout out of pure habit.

Shiro ruffles Keith’s hair. It’s supposed to be endearing, but Keith can’t help that it feels nice to have fingers rubbing his scalp, carding through his hair. Shiro’s hand lingers a little longer than it should for such new friends and Keith doesn’t mind it one bit.

“Thanks for having lunch with us,” Shiro adds, finally pulling his hand back. “We’ll see you later this evening then? For our race?”

“Yeah,” Keith grins. “We can roll out together.”

“Sounds good.”

Something magnetic holds their stares a little longer than might be appropriate, but eventually they pull away. It leaves Keith feeling like his stomach is flipping and he thinks he likes it.

He takes the afternoon to watch the drag races and solo runs. Taking a seat in the bleachers among the thousands of other spectators, he observes how the races are conducted as well as how they’re filmed and broadcast up on floating screens throughout the seated areas.

A giddy feeling races through him when he feels the bassy rip roar of an engine rumble past the starting line, up through the bleachers and directly into his bones. Everyone is high on the potent quintessent exhaust and Keith acknowledges that maybe he’s looking forward to the evening race with Shiro and his team a little too much.


	4. The First Race

Keith returns to Lot 55 with the smell of quintessent fuel still burning in his nostrils. Next door to his ship, Shiro and his team are in the middle of dinner and invite Keith to join them.

“Sorry we started eating without you,” Shiro says, gesturing for Keith to take a sit next to him. “Hunk says it’s not good race on a empty stomach.”

“And a full one is just as bad,” Pidge chimes in. “Which is why dinner is a bit early.”

Keith thinks that he’s always been of a predominantly imperturbable nature, and he hopes the others can understand that. At the very least, he slips in and joins them in eating without comment, happy to have a meal ready and decent company to enjoy it with.

“How were the races?” Shiro asks him.

“Really cool,” Keith reponds around a mouth full of food. “Fast. Loud. Exhilarating.”

“And that’s just from the sidelines,” Shiro says, nudging Keith with his elbow. “Imagining being on the track.”

Keith is trying very hard not to.

Once dinner is done and all of their supplies are loaded up, Shiro and Lance take off with Keith in tow, followed by Pidge on her scooter and Hunk on the lite pod.

With the sun setting behind the distant prismatic plateaus, the sky pales into a dusty pink that bursts with orange cirrus clouds, casting the surface in blue shadows where the light can no longer reach. It’s as breathtaking as the morning sun had been and Keith feels his heartbeat thunder in his torso.

The walls of the practice arena loom over them on their approach. Outside, the arena’s energy is similar to the parking lots but louder and with fewer circumspect Vetrao speed-monitoring bots. Keith’s finds himself agog with the buzz, all the polychrome paint jobs, the slimsy bikes, the tanks, the myriad species of visiting racers. In a way, Vetrao is like the Outpost but on a much larger scale, which gives him comfort to his lingering guilt. He wishes his wolf was here.

After checking in with the reception, they are designated a box and a time slot for their practice. Pidge and Hunk demand to tune up all present bikes before Shiro, Lance, and Keith hit the track. In the meanwhile, Lance pulls out a bag of chips and purposefully crinkles the bag for a prolonged amount of time instead of just opening it.

“Sorry, just playing my favorite song,” he says, finally opening the bag after Shiro levels him with an pointed glare.

“When did you buy more?” Hunk asks, elbows deep in Lance’s engine. “I didn’t even see you leave.”

“This afternoon.” Much to Keith’s dismay, Lance chews with his mouth open. “They’re so good I had to go back for round two. Does anyone want to try? I’m feeling generous.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Keith says, taking a place next to Shiro who is watching racers test out the arena track. Lance shifts his hawking to Hunk and Pidge, who refuse him vehemently by barking about how much they would love to combine the slick of engine grease and irritating white-noise-for-your-fingers feeling of chip crumbs while they work but thanks for the offer _Lance_.

“Are they always like this?” Keith asks Shiro, unable to help the smile that pulls at his mouth.

“24/7, three-sixty-five,” Shiro vows. “But I mostly love them for it. Ready to race?” He asks, uncrossing his arms and placing them on his hips instead.

“Should be asking yourself that,” Keith smirks, slipping his hands into his jacket pockets and trying to remain aloof. Shiro is proving to be very disarming what with his large stature, rippling biceps, and square-cut jaw; Keith only has so much self-restraint when it comes to flirting with someone so much his type. “Think you can beat me?”

Shiro leans back a bit with the accusation, feigning incredulity. It makes his shirt stretch further across his chest and Keith thinks Shiro knows it. “Guess we’re about to find out,” he says in a low voice, eyes hooded. Keith’s navel dips and he forces himself to look away, but when he does he doubletakes at who is in his line of vision.

Near the entrance, four bikes roll in, three black and one white like a star. When the rider of the white bike steps off, Keith matches his posture to his memory and knows exactly who it is before the helmet is off: Lotor.

If the deep sigh is any indication, Shiro seems to know him, too.

Lotor scans the arena, the track, and somehow picks Keith out of the crowd. His expression curdles into something between smug and hungry, and he makes a beeline for the box. Keith realizes he’s taken a step back to try and put distance between him and Lotor and his bike when he feels Shiro’s big hand at the small of his back.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Shiro cooes. “How do you know Lotor?”

“Came to the Outpost—wouldn’t leave me alone about my bike,” Keith says, trying not to lean into Shiro’s touch too earnestly.

“Don’t worry,” Shiro speaks softly as he approaches. “Lotor isn’t shit.”

“Look who made it,” Lotor says snidely. “I shouldn’t be surprised to see your team is full of humans, team Voltron no less, but here I am. Color me surprised.”

“Aren’t you missing a teammate?” Keith asks, counting the bikes and trying not to make eye contact with Lotor.

“I suppose I was right about what I said yesterday,” Lotor hums. “We have an opening on our team. Care to fill it? You’d fit right in.”

Keith looks closely to where Lotor’s team members have removed their helmets. He recognizes Acxa, and then two others who are clearly both half-Galra as well. He’s upset that Lotor isn’t wrong, but refuses to speak on it. Especially since Lotor has insinuated something insidious about his attitude toward the dispensability of teammates. Vaguely, Keith wonders what happened to the fourth black biker.

“He’s one of ours, Lotor,” Shiro shrugs, voice easy and relaxed as ever, with a hint of pride. Keith can hardly describe the feeling in his chest that bursts at Shiro’s words, at his calm, even, unequivocal tone, at the implications of the words themselves. He’s never been anyone’s anything before. _One of ours_. Not outside of his family. _Ours_. He tries to balance these feelings with the reality that he’s hardly known these people for more than a day. Are all humans so protective of each other? Maybe his Galra guardians have more in common with them than he initially thought. Maybe this kind of love really is universal. “Guess you weren’t quick enough.”

Lotor looks less than pleased at the outcome he’s faced with, but nonetheless his lips twitch upward into the approximation of a smile, his fangs leaving indents on his plush, strained bottom lip.

“Not quick enough yesterday, no. But perhaps I can be faster today. Are you up for a little bet?”

“No,” Lance hollers from behind Shiro and Keith, still seated in a plastic chair and eating the chips. His fingers are stained bright orange which somehow underlines how little team Voltron cares about Lotor.

“Alright, just Shiro and Keith, then,” Lotor says, steadfast. “How about this? If you can beat my team, we’ll drop from the races tomorrow.”

“That _would_ be nice,” Shiro nods approvingly. “But what’s in it for you?”

“If we win, Keith joins our team,” Lotor finishes.

“Why would we agree do that?” Shiro asks. Keith is grateful that Shiro is sticking up for him, but he also wants a say in things. All Keith wants is to get this competition out of his lungs and legs, to practice against Lance and Shiro, and to not have Lotor complicate his experience with unfounded melodrama.

“They’re low stakes, Shiro. No sense in fighting,” Lotor contests, his tone nuanced enough to both mollify and threaten. Behind him, the largest of his teammates cracks her knuckles with a villainous crunch.

But the stakes aren’t low. Keith has finally gotten a taste of what life off the Outpost is like and up until now, he’s been enjoying it profusely. Hunk and Pidge, who had been enveloped in their work and trying not to get involved, now watch Keith closely. He flatters himself in reading it as reciprocation. He wants to protect them, too.

“We’re not going to play this game with you,” Shiro says, steeling himself.

“I will,” Keith interrupts. “You’re on.”

Shiro’s jaw drops.

Lotor grins as if he’s already won. “Wonderful. We’ll race during your time slot, no? See you in a few dobashes.”

Lotor is hardly halfway across the arena toward his team’s box before Shiro fixes Keith with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“I stuck up for you! What are you doing?” Shiro grills him, genuinely shocked, which Keith can’t help but read as Shiro preferring Keith to be on his team.

“You said it yourself,” Keith starts. “Lotor isn’t shit. He can’t beat you,” he boasts, even though he has no idea if it’s true or not. “Have you raced against him and lost?” 

“We’ve never lost to him, no,” Shiro admits. “But it’s been a while since our teams last competed against each other. What if he’s got something up his sleeve? And didn’t you notice how he made it sound like something untowardly happened to his teammate?”

“You all seem like the type of folks who can handle a wrench in the plan,” Keith says coolly. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“He’s not wrong,” Lance answers approvingly, ignoring the rhetorical nature of Keith’s invitation, which is exactly what Keith was secretly hoping for. He’s starting to get the hang of everyone. 

“I just want him off your ass,” Keith tries a new angle.

“Keith,” Shiro sighs, ultimately not upset with him. In fact, there’s a new, crackling spark to his eyes. “Your pep talks are a little weird and I think you _do_ like getting into trouble, but…” He pauses, glancing at his teammates for any dissent, then back to Keith. “I’m in.”

Shiro adjusts the settings on his safety collar, clicking one button and activating the full body armor option, which matches the bikes, suggesting someone on the team has an eye for the harmony of uniforms. It’s a very sleek get-up that hugs all of Shiro’s curves and planes while protecting his vulnerabilities. Even though the suit has fabric elements to it, the way the material appears metallic as it shimmers in the light makes Keith wonder if Pidge and Hunk had a hand in making it.

“Lance, you in?” Shiro asks, taking his bike from Pidge.

“Ugh, but these chips are so much more worthy of my time than Lotor,” he laments. “I’ll do it if you really need me to. Otherwise Keith can go for it,” he says with a wink and loud crinkle of the chip bag.

“I’ll do it,” Keith says, grabbing his own bike.

“Wait, you’re going out there like that?” Hunk asks. Keith doesn’t understand the question.

“Do I have something on my face?” Keith replies, earning a laugh from Hunk.

“No, no, but you need armor. The arena’s full of little rocks, and at high speeds they can leave crazy welts.”

“I don’t have an armor setting on my safety collar,” Keith says sheepishly, silently cursing his lack of foresight. Granted, the Outpost had a different soil texture that did not warrant armor. That and the fact he had no idea he would make it this far.

“I’ve got extras!” Pidge chirps, digging into a compartment in her scooter. Treasure in hand, her oil-greased fingers carefully offer up a polished white safety collar. “Do you have a color preference?”

“Not blue!” Lance barks.

“Lance’s signature color,” Shiro elaborates at Keith’s raised eyebrow.

“I think you’d look nice in red,” Pidge decides, so Keith doesn’t have much of a say at all. Pidge tries to help him put on the safety collar since the buttons are tricky, but she’s barely too short to pull it off. Shiro takes it instead and brushes Keith’s long hair from his neck and clasps the collar.

“This one activates,” Shiro says, guiding Keith’s fingers over each of the controls with his own hand. “And this one releases. Give it a try.”

Activating the collar initializes the insta-deploy on the armor and it wraps its way around his body until it holds him like a new skin. It’s comfortable and sturdy and matches Shiro’s armor, except where Shiro’s is midnight black, Keith’s is crimson red.

He catches Shiro watching him and is helpless to the chase. “How do I look?” He asks Shiro, challenging him.

“Like one of ours,” he grins.

“Thank you,” Keith tells Hunk and Pidge. “How much do I owe you?”

“Just a win,” Hunk winks. “If you lose it’s 25,000 credits.”

“Haha,” Keith says sarcastically. “Okay.”

“No, I’m actually serious,” Hunk presses, his face completely solemn until Keith looks like he might cry. “Oh my god, Keith, I’m sorry, it really was just a joke, I was lying, I’m sorry!” Hunk laughs nervously, guilty that Keith didn’t catch on.

Shiro amends this with a clap on the back. “You don’t owe us anything, Keith. It’s nice to have a new addition to the team.”

“It’ll be nicer when you come back and Lotor doesn’t,” Lance adds. “Just trying to keep our priorities straight here.”

“We’ll be back,” Shiro tells his team. “Ready, Keith?”

Keith nods. As ready as he’ll ever be.

*

Keith scrapes his boot against the ground, noticing the abundance of pebbles and gravel, and he thinks to thank Hunk for looking out for his well-being. He hadn’t realized it until now, but Keith really did rely on his guardians to take care of him in that department. If anything happened, Iyaya could simply teleport to him with supplies or bring him back home. They were all ex-soldiers with basic medical training, and beyond that Thace was an expert hand holder. 

Now Keith is all the way out on Vetrao, borrowing armor since he hadn’t even considered that he might need it. This is his first serious race, albeit unofficial. But with the bet on the table, it’s urgent like a wildfire.

The two things that are keeping Keith’s heart steady are the fact that he still can hardly believe any of this is happening, and that Shiro is serene like a quiet pond. His calmness is contagious and Keith is grateful.

“Do you do anything special before a race?” Keith asks, watching Lotor touch the dirt and test the wind direction. Keith thinks he looks particularly stupid, although he can’t exactly blame him for having superstitions after growing up with Kolivan.

“Not really. Occasionally I give Lance a pep talk when he gets nervous,” Shiro shrugs.

“Oh,” Keith hums, thinking about how nice that sounds.

“Do you want one?” Shiro asks, noticing Keith’s tacit nerves. “Are you worried?”

Keith feels embarrassed to say yes, so he nods instead, ignoring the heat that spreads across his face.

“No shame,” Shiro promises, resting a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Okay so think of it this way,” he begins. “It’s just you and your bike. You’ve been riding for years. You’ve been riding well for even longer. You’ve felt the sun on your back, the rain in your face, the wind in your hair. It’s just you and your bike and I’m there, too. We’re gonna ride, ride hard, and forget anything and anyone who tries to tear us away from this ride. Sound good?”

It does sound good.

“Thank you,” Keith tells him, wants to thank him beyond just saying it. “What is a good gesture of good will that humans do for each other?” It varies from Galra to Galra, but Keith’s family will usually exchange small gifts.

Shiro’s mouth draws to one corner in thought. “We could shake hands again.”

“But I’ve already met you?”

“It can mean ‘thank you,’ too. But alright, you make a good point,” Shiro snorts. “How about a hug?”

“Ah,” is the only noise Keith can get out before Shiro pulls him tight into his arms. He tries to play it cool since hugging is usually reserved for deeply intimate relationships among Galra, and thinks he does a pretty good job until Shiro pulls back and sees his face, his serene expression dropping immediately.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

“Fine,” Keith chokes. “Let’s race.”

Lotor and Acxa mount their bikes, lining up next to them.

“Good luck,” Lotor says. Keith doesn’t justify him with a reply, just focuses on the road, his bike, and Shiro next to him.

The race begins with a whistle and without artifice. Terrain rips underneath tires, the arena boxes and bleachers blur by, and the wind whips loudly in Keith’s ear. They’re off, for an agreed-upon eight loops around the track. 

Lotor and Acxa lead the race for the initial two laps, having started closer to the inner lanes. Shiro and Keith chat over their comms and Shiro convinces Keith not to take the bait and try to overcome them right away, as much as he wants to.

Instead, they pace themselves up through lap five, testing out Lotor and Acxa’s flightiness and maneuvering, discussing ways to get ahead. When they pass the starting line, they execute their plan. Shiro hits the gas hard, pulling wide and then into front by a margin, luring Lotor to draft on his tail. Keith attempts to pass Acxa on the outside, and she pulls in front to block him. As soon as she does, Keith chokes the engine and pulls into the curve of the track, leaning hard and squeaking past Acxa before she can block him again. 

They’re on lap eight now and all he has to do is get ahead of Lotor. Shiro gears down and gives the signal to Keith. The horsepower of Lotor’s bike screams with a nitrous blast as he tries to slingshot past Shiro, and while Lotor is momentarily faster than Shiro, the speed doesn’t hold up long enough for him to get ahead. While Lotor is stuck in the wide berth he’d taken to try and pass, Keith sneaks in behind Shiro, who goes wide out to further block Lotor. 

Keith and Shiro cross the finish line together.

Once the blood in his ears slows its boil Keith can hear the whooping cheers of Pidge, Hunk, and Lance, who are all leaning over the edge of their box to wave and yell.

Keith deactivates his helmet, waving back at the three. Then he looks for Shiro, who is already off his bike and walking toward Keith, helmet is already down and his face glowing with sweat and the biggest grin Keith has seen him wear yet. 

“Keith, you were amazing, I can’t believe you kept up that whole time, that was incredible—” Shiro pulls him into another hug and Keith thinks he could get used to this. “Thank you! And welcome to the team?” Shiro’s voice is pleading and hopeful. 

“If you’ll have me,” Keith acquiesces. The heat of the moment makes him forget to hope it’s an honorary position; his promise to Antok that he’d return to the Outpost wiggles in the back of his mind.

Lotor doesn’t spare Keith and Shiro more than a scowl, storming off on his bike. However, Acxa approaches and nods to Keith. “Good race,” she says. Keith can appreciate a good sport. He returns the sentiment.

Back in the box, the team officially welcomes Keith onto the team by bestowing upon him the safety collar. Hunk tells him he must be baptized and he achieves this by flicking sports drink at Keith’s face. Lance offers the chips once more to no avail. Pidge has Keith fill out emergency contact information.

“Just knock your PGSN band here,” she says, holding up a tablet. “I only need your most basic information.”

Without much thought to it, Keith offers his wrist. The tablet chimes and Pidge confirms that they’re done.

They celebrate a little longer by peeling out of the training arena and buying celebratory nunvill from a vendor roaming the parking lots and drink by the fire, laughing a little louder and talking a little longer than they should.

“Keith, you were seriously amazing today,” Shiro presses and Keith preens with it. He wants to tell Shiro that that had been his first real race ever. But something stops him—he doesn’t want to cheapen the moment or make it all about him.

“Thanks to your quick planning,” Keith counters. “You’re a great racer.”

Shiro looks beyond pleased. Right as he’s about to speak, Lance interrupts with,“Either way, you did it together and now we don’t have to worry about Lotor’s team at the pair races tomorrow! So thanks for that.”

As the fire reduces to embers, everyone decides to retire for the night. It’s an early morning tomorrow, and Pidge wants Keith to help out on the pit team to learn the ropes. A mix of excitement and guilt thrums through him and he worries whether or not he’ll be able to sleep at all tonight.

Before he leaves, Shiro pulls him aside one last time.

“Sorry I keep saying it,” he laughs. “You were just incredible earlier. Thanks for listening to all my bossy directions.”

“They were all good,” Keith shrugs. “You were born to lead.”

“Keith,” Shiro sighs. “Thank you.”

Perhaps if they had known each other longer than a day, or at least under different circumstances, Keith would have felt comfortable getting onto his tiptoes and pecking Shiro on the lips with an affectionate kiss. The moment and tension are ripe for it, but something stops him and he rolls back on his heels.

“See you tomorrow, captain,” he says instead, spinning on a heel and walking to his ship. On the threshold, he looks back one last time to see Shiro in the same spot, waving goodnight.

It takes a while to get there, but Keith sleeps soundly.

*

Morning sunlight washes the Vetraon terrain in soft shades of yellow and tangerine, the forecast clear. Breakfast is fast and filling, something coarse and thick that Hunk calls _oatmeal_.

“This is a standard human breakfast?” Keith asks, skeptical. The pale sludge is bland and unrefined. Boring. Tasteless. His opinion must be written on his face because Shiro’s mouth seems to be wrestling with an endeared smile.

“Standard enough,” Lance says. “Cheap, long-lasting. Great for singles. One Costco carton will do you for two years.”

Dutifully, Keith finishes his oatmeal and pretends he knows what Costco is. He wants to keep embracing this whole humanity thing to the best of his ability. 

After breakfast, they pack up all traces of the campsite and load up the truck. Keith decides to leave his ship in the lot; he won’t have need for it. It’ll be waiting for him when he gets back and leaves later tonight after the race. All he brings is his safety collar so he can be in uniform with team.

Team Voltron makes room for Keith in as many ways as they can. He is given a designated seat in the truck, which apparently always belongs to the most recent member due to its sheer lack of cushioning against rough terrain driving.

“Game day!” Lance hollers, already wearing his armor. “We’re aiming for third place, right Shiro?”

“We’re aiming for first,” Shiro stresses from behind the steering wheel. “And if we end up anywhere between there and fourth, the monetary compensation will balance out.”

“Gotcha,” Lance says, tapping his feet. “Hey, did anyone else have trouble sleeping last night? I was so sweaty and anxious.”

“Isn’t that just pre-race jitters?” Hunk asks, writing down some calculations on a tablet.

“No, no, this was different, and I had this crazy dream where—”

Before Lance can elaborate, Shiro notifies his team that they’ve arrived at the arena. It’s two or three times the size of the practice tracks they visited last night, and the rusted red walls make the structure feel like one of the far off plateaus, like it is an extension of the planet. Bright yellow monitoring bots litter the entrance, checking PGSN bands and ticket vouchers, letting streams of spectators file through. Shiro takes a hard left and makes for the pit entrances. 

They follow in a line behind other trucks and pods full of racers. Passing through a tunnel, the dull buzz of the stadium opens up into a surround-sound, tinnitus-inducing roar, and suddenly they are in the middle of the pits.

“Wow,” Keith breathes. Never in his life has he seen so many people gathered in one place. He holds onto the armrest for purchase, then remembers to ease up on his white-knuckled grip. Team Voltron still doesn’t know that, counting last night, this is just his second real race ever.

“You okay?” Shiro asks him once they’ve parked into their designated pit. “You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” Keith responds. He activates his armor and feels a little safer, but it doesn’t help him form any sort of coherent thought. “It’s just so much.”

Shiro claps a warm hand on his shoulder. “No worries, okay? You’ll be great. Just listen to Pidge and Hunk and you’ll be fine.”

“What about you?” Keith asks, watching Shiro’s expression soften.

“I’ll be fine, too. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Keith wants to ask what a rodeo is, but he’s interrupted by the growl of an oversized engine rip and no muffling mechanisms whatsoever. They turn to find the source of the noise and are met with a monster sized truck swinging in and parking several pits down with an aggressive squeal.

“Team Zarkon,” Shiro explains with narrowed eyes. Several Galra loudly load out of the truck and begin assembling their pit station with efficient precision.

To Keith’s surprise, Lotor is one of the members.

“Wait, what?” Lance asks, joining Keith and Shiro. “Lotor is with team Zarkon?”

“He promised he wouldn’t show,” Hunk adds. “Something is up.”

“Lotor is Zarkon’s son,” one of their pit neighbors tells them. Short in stature but fierce in demeanor, Keith recognizes them as Arusian. From his experiences on the Outpost, he remembers Arusians as a particularly agreeable species, and he appreciates their unwarranted helpfulness. “Had him out of wedlock. Big scandal on Daibazaal,” they add.

“Thank you,” Shiro tells the Arusian who returns to their preparations. Shiro faces his team with crossed arms. “This isn’t good news.”

“Yeah, last thing we needed was for Lotor to go crying to his daddy about losing to team Voltron,” Lance sighs, kicking the ground.

“It’ll be fine,” Hunk says. “They always up the referees when Zarkon’s team races; foul-play won’t be tolerated.”

“I want to believe you,” Pidge strains. “But he won’t hesitate to play dirty, even with the refs; I wouldn’t be surprised if he was paying them under the table. And considering all the accidents that have happened on Vetrao involving Zarkon in one way or another, maybe his brand of nutso is exactly what we need to be careful of. ”

“Pidge makes a good point, and I hate to say that we can’t afford to drop from this race,” Shiro counters reluctantly. “We need the money.”

“You can do it,” Keith says defiantly, trying to find a role to play on the team. He’s not sure how his words will stand up to the group and their history, but all he can do is try. “You can win.”

The four members of team Voltron look at the new member of team Voltron with varying degrees of skepticism, pride, and gratitude.

“Keith’s right,” Pidge says. “We can win. I ran some tests while you raced in the practice arena yesterday and Shiro’s turn speeds were smoother than ever before. Plus, Zarkon doesn’t stand a chance against against us if we have these,” she adds, pointing to the bikes she and Hunk had worked so hard on to upgrade.

“We’ve got this,” Shiro attests. “Let’s load up. Race starts in fifteen doboshes.”

The team breaks to their respective stations and all Keith can do is try to school his nerves and not get in anyone’s way. He finds comfort in going over the race map again. With a finger, he follows the route as it leads out and away from the stadium into a long, flat stretch, hopping up to trace where the track threads through the rocky plateaus where there isn’t much of a groomed trail, then downhill and around a large body of water and finally back through the stadium. For three laps, twenty pairs of racers will compete to win.

“We’ll be stopping just after the first lap,” Shiro instructs. “Then we’re going to ride hard for the rest of the race. Is that okay?”

“Should be fine,” Hunk agrees. “Let’s get your bikes out to the starting positions.”

Pidge hangs back at the pit but Keith joins them for the novelty of it all. A Vetraon monitoring bot scans racers as they pass through the fence onto the track and greets team Voltron just the same.

“Please scan your PGSN bands on the monitor to relay your electronic signature,” it instructs. While new to Keith, Shiro and Hunk do not contest the bot’s command, promptly scanning their bands and walking through the fence without flourish. 

Keith’s nerves are just starting to subside when Lance scans his band and the monitoring bot erupts with high pitched, wailing siren. Keith takes an alarmed step back as everyone goes wide-eyed in confusion. Two other monitoring bots skid over instantaneously, the lights atop their heads flashing yellow and red.

“What the hell!” Lance says. “Scan me again, let me through!”

“Our scanners have detected illicit drugs in your system,” the bot explains. Lance’s jaw drops but it hardly compares to the expression of shock on Hunk’s face.

“ _What?!_ ” Shiro barks from next to Hunk, appearing slightly less surprised. A raised eyebrow begs for Lance to confirm or deny the claim. “Lance?!”

“Shiro, no, I swear I didn’t do any drugs, you _know_ I wouldn’t—” Lance remembers to breathe and stands his ground against the robots that are trying to pull him away. “Okay Dr. Professor Piss Test, if I have drugs in my system than you can tell me exactly what they are, no?”

The bot’s monitor fizzes with static until conjuring a picture of the alleged drug.

“Trace amounts of Loxamunex Nitrobutral, strain 658CV. It was consumed in this form.” At this, the monitor displays an image of the chips that Lance had been binging all yesterday.

“How was I supposed to know the chips were laced! I can’t read Taujeerian!” Lance laments, still not letting the bots guide him away from the track. “This is bullshit!”

“Lance, it’s okay, we’re not upset,” Shiro says in spite of appearing very upset.

“It’s not okay! What are we going to do about the race?!” Hunk stresses, throwing his hands up and almost dropping Shiro’s bike in the process.

“Just— just—,” Lance struggles to figure out a solution, frantically looking around until his eyes land on Keith. “Keith!” he chirps maniacally. Keith’s stomach drops. “Race in my stead!”

“Lance, I couldn’t possibly take your place—” 

“It’s fine! You have my blessing!” The two auxiliary bots tug harder at Lance’s arms, dragging him backward. “Ow, that hurts, what the fuck! Keith! _Avenge me, Keith!_ ”

Lance gets hauled further back and despite his defiant shoving, is lost to the crowd.

“Fuck,” Keith whispers.

“Keith,” Shiro starts. “Are you okay to do this? Just say the word and we’ll drop out, please don’t feel like you have to do this if you’re not comfortable with it, we can race once the drugs are out of Lance’s system and—”

“I’ll do it,” Keith decides, scanning his band.

“Newly registered teammate,” the bot chirps in a wary tone and Keith wonders if his fate will be the same as Lance’s.

“It’s been more than eight hours,” Shiro says sternly, patience wearing thin.

“Verified,” the bot agrees, allowing Keith passage. He wonders how Shiro knows that’s a rule.

He commands his legs to move forward and push Lance’s bike to the other side of the fence, thinking about how he finally has a reason to regret leaving his own bike behind. Under any other circumstances, he would prefer to race his own bike. The opportunity to test-drive one of Voltron’s bikes had not come up in the past thirty or so hours.

“Oh Jesus,” Hunk murmurs, probably on the same train of thought. “Thankfully you and Lance are similar in size. Hop on so I can make some adjustments.”

Keith obeys, taking a seat on the bike. It’s sleek like a bolt of lightning; the smooth frame fits well under his thighs. Hunk works a panel with a tiny screwdriver and Keith feels the hydraulics shift, giving him a more comfortable angle on the seat.

“How does it feel?” Hunk asks, sweating bullets. He looks as nervous as Keith feels.

“Good. I’m sorry,” Keith coughs, still in disbelief of the situation. “If we lose I take full responsibility.”

“Don’t say that,” Shiro chides. He doesn’t look happy about any of this, but Keith can’t be upset with him when a million unexpected things are happening at once. “We’ll be fine.”

A few positions over, their current dilemma gets overwhelmed by the cacophony of neighboring racers lambasting each other. Then they hear several curses against team Voltron.

“Great,” Shiro sighs, his shoulders steadily dropping in inchmeal defeat. “Those racers saw all of that happen.”

“Shiro,” Hunk’s voice trembles. “Be careful.”

A whistle echoes throughout the valley of the arena, a three-minute warning. Hunk retreats to the pit to join a wide-eyed Pidge, explaining the situation with circular hand motions and sweaty armpits. Pidge comes on over the comm.

“Shiro, are we doing this?”

As if he holds all the say in the world, Shiro looks to Keith, who never expected to be a fulcrum between stop or go. Just two days prior he’d been stuck on the Outpost wondering if he’d ever get the chance to prove himself on the track. Now here he was, thrust into the rapidly spinning cogs of a long-standing feud, the moments ticking away toward an unfamiliar, unknown ultimatum. But Keith is unable to deny or discount the unbridled warmth and respect team Voltron has offered him in the past two days. If anything, he owes them. Even more so, he owes it to himself.

This has been his dream.

With concrete solid conviction and a fiery swell in his chest, Keith stands straighter, nodding affirmatively to Shiro. “We can do this,” he says. He’s not sure if it’s the right thing to say since he’s in a position where it can’t be reciprocated as straightforwardly, but he proclaims it anyway, meeting Shiro’s eyes: “I trust you.”

Ultimately, Shiro smiles. “Thank you, Keith. Pidge, we’re doing this.”

Pidge gives them a thumbs up from the pit.

“Alright. Be on your toes. It looks like Zarkon is racing with Sendak today, so it’s no holds barred. Be cautious and be fast.”

They find their places atop their bikes. Keith watches the way Shiro slots his hips into position, and catches Shiro doing the same. To hide what Keith assumes is the shame of getting caught, he activates his helmet and Keith can’t see his face anymore. They switch to their personal comms to talk.

“Okay Keith,” he clears his throat. “This is pretty straightforward. I watched you go over the route like ten times. You ready to run?”

Keith inhales the deepest breath he’s taken all day.

“I’m ready. It’s just you and me and the road. And we won’t let anyone else get between that,” Keith tries to use elements of the speech Shiro had given him yesterday, but it comes off as too declarative. He just doesn’t have the same silky, confident timbre of Shiro’s voice. All the same, Shiro laughs into the comm.

“Keith, this is probably a terrible time to do this,” Shiro starts as the announcer requests for the racers to start their engines. Keith’s heart twists in anticipation. “But after all this… Could I take you out for dinner or something?”

The sentiment translates so well that Keith swears his heartbeat can be heard over the static.

“Keith, your heart rate spiked on my monitor. Everything okay?” Pidge asks to the group comm. Fears confirmed.

“Yes,” Keith says to them both, mortified more by Shiro’s undignified sputter at his reaction. “Absolutely.”

“Racers at the ready,” the voice cooes over eighteen hundred loudspeakers. “On your mark.”  
Keith tries to quell the heat in his face. He checks one of his mirrors and sees the black and purple of Zarkon’s bikes, thinking about how they can best avoid a run-in with them.

With Shiro by his side, he feels a sense of certainty that, if he allows to, feels like safety too.

“Get set.”

“We’ve got this,” Shiro whispers. Keith can barely catch it over the comms with the gurgle of bikes behind him. But he hears.

“Yeah.”

The starting whistle reverberates throughout the stadium, back and forth between the bleachers on either side. Keith thinks he feels the whistle split through him, but it’s just the scream of the crowd and the collective rumble of forty hoverbike engines roaring to life and cracking down the way in thunderbolts. The bike surges beneath him and he leans into the inertia, into what feels like destiny, with Shiro still beside him.

He hears team Voltron whoop in his ear. They’re off.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when I'll finish this, but it is on my to-do list. I'll probably get around to it after I finish the last chap of my yoga au and after nanowrimo is over !!


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